


That’s a good look on you

by silveriris



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: F/F, Tumblr Prompt, merribela, this fic makes zero sense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-25 14:08:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6198007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silveriris/pseuds/silveriris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merrill doesn’t know what to do with compliments. They are reserved for people who actually deserve them, not for her.<br/>But when it’s Isabela who says such things, Merrill can almost believe her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That’s a good look on you

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Dragon Age is not mine.  
> A/N: written for a ‘send me a pairing and a line of dialogue and i’ll write you something happy/light-hearted’ thing from tumblr. Prompt: “That’s a good look on you.” for Merrill x Isabela.

Drinking contests aren’t exactly the best idea, but it’s one of those nights when Hawke is so bored every dumb idea seems great.

“Drinks are on me!” the Champion of Kirkwall proclaims with a mischievous grin. The crowd applauds.

There’s something in the way Hawke smiles that makes other people smile as well, and Merrill can’t help but feel grateful that Hawke is someone she can call her friend. She won’t participate because, well, Keeper Marethari wouldn’t like that, besides she’s certain she’d end up under the table after two drinks, and that would be embarrassing. She’s pretty much used to feeling embarrassed, humans and their customs are so weird sometimes, but she tries very hard to be a Better Person everyone respects, or at least tolerates. Like Hawke. Not that Hawke doesn’t make any stupid decisions, though it seems that the Champion of Kirkwall doesn’t care what other people think at all.

“Have fun, I’m leaving,” Aveline gets up and picks up her sword.

“What?! No, don’t go!” Hawke whines.

“I don’t want to see whatever’s going to happen here,” she replies, her voice cold.

“You’re breaking my heart!”

Aveline has her signature frown on her face when she leaves without a word. It’s a smart thing to do, leave before all hell breaks loose (like it always does when Hawke’s around).

Half an hour later, the crowd gets significantly louder. Even though everyone conveniently forgot about Hawke who is now lying unconscious under the table, hugging an empty bottle, the contest is still going. Everyone _but_ Corff the bartender who writes down everything other people order to make sure the Champion pays for all this.

Merrill observes it all with polite curiosity. It’s silly and pointless, yet people seem to enjoy it. She’s a little bit worried about Hawke, so every now and then she checks if the Champion is still there.

She briefly wonders what’s the reward if someone actually wins the contest tonight. Perhaps something from the ever growing pile of garbage Hawke collects, like a pair of old trousers. It’s a mystery why Hawke wants all that, but then again everybody needs a hobby.

Hearing a loud noise, Merrill nearly jumps in her seat. She looks at Fenris who again slams his fist down on the table. Anders shoots him an angry glance. He’s especially grumpy tonight because he obviously can’t participate in the drinking contest, Justice won’t let him. He can merely observe, mumbling something about his time with the Wardens when he could get as drunk as every _normal_ person without the Fade spirit spoiling the fun.

“I’ll go get us more wine,” Varric gets up, he’s wobbling only a little. “I suggest you stop before someone loses a limb or two, Broody. You get a bit angry, well, _angrier_ , after you’ve had enough to drink.”  
“I’m perfectly sober,” the elf says, his speech so slurred it’s hard to understand what he’s saying.

“Sure you are,” Isabela laughs.

Merrill glances at the half empty bottle in the pirate’s hand. It’s definitely wine, though it seems like Isabela is drinking water because she’s not drunk at all. She’s going to win this silly contest; everyone gets more and more drunk while she looks like she’s having an afternoon tea.

She’s a winner, she’s good at everything. Merrill lets out a sigh. Isabela fights so well, she always knows what to say. And she’s very pretty.

Merrill blinks. It’s better not to think about it now. Her cheeks are flushed, thankfully people all around her are too busy getting completely wasted to notice one blushing elf.

“Are you alright, Kitten?” Isabela asks, concerned.

The fact that Isabela of all people noticed makes this whole situation more embarrassing. Merrill wishes she could disappear, her face red.

“I’m– I’m fine,” she says quickly in a voice that suggests she’s not fine at all.

Thankfully Isabela doesn’t say anything else, only gives Merrill a reassuring smile. There’s a hint of concern in her eyes. The elf has to fight with a sudden urge to apologise for ever making the pirate worried, for blushing so easily, for _everything_ , because worry isn’t something Merrill wants to see in Isabela’s eyes.

“Here, Blondie, eat.” Varric comes back with more wine and a bowl of stew that he places in front of Anders. Other than mentioning cats, offering the mage food is the best way to make him stop complaining.

“Is Hawke really going to pay for all that?” the dwarf asks, looking around. It seems every person living in this part of Kirkwall decided to visit the Hanged Man tonight.

In the middle of this commotion, one participant of Hawke’s ‘contest’ attempts to make a pirouette. Nobody knows why exactly, but people are simply too drunk to question such thing now. The problem is that after drinking too much (it’s for free so why wouldn’t he drink until he can’t see straight?), he greatly overestimates his capabilities.

He lands on the table near Merrill, the elf jumps, bottles fall on the floor and break, and the bowl of stew that Varric brought for Anders somehow ends up on Merrill’s clothes.

“I was eating that,” Anders complains.

The man mumbles a drunken apology and walks away, wobbling, his dreams of becoming a ballerina crushed forever. Everything happens so quickly Merrill only gasps in surprise, staring at her completely ruined clothes.

“What an asshole,” Isabela narrows her eyes, glancing at the man. Her gaze softens when she looks back at the elf.

“It’s alright. It’s just another stain.”

“I have an idea,” the pirate gets up. “Come with me.”

She takes Merrill’s hand and pulls her with her, guiding away from their table. Merrill makes a step, then another and another, they go up the stairs although she’s not sure how she can walk while her mind can’t concentrate on anything else but Isabela’s warm hand.

It shouldn’t be so hard to ask what Isabela has in mind. It’s just so difficult to concentrate when the pirate holds Merrill’s hand.  
“What about the contest?” she finally says, her voice weak for some reason. It’s far from what she really wants to say, but it feels safer to ask about something so trivial instead.

Isabela shrugs. “They’ll be fine without me. I was going to win anyway.”

The walls are so thin they can still hear all that noise from downstairs. _People in Kirkwall sure like yelling_ , Merrill idly thinks.

Isabela’s room looks like every other room in this place. There are some of her personal belongings here and there, like a second pair of boots tossed carelessly on the floor, or her marvellous pirate hat hanging by the door. Even though it’s just another guestroom, the fact that it now belongs to Isabela changes everything, and for a second Merrill feels a mixture of panic, excitement and embarrassment. Because it’s _Isabela’s room_. It matters, for reasons the elf can’t explain.

She steps inside, careful not to disturb or _break_ anything.

“I’ve got something that’ll help,” Isabela says, opening her wardrobe. “See if you like it.”

When she turns to Merrill, at first the elf doesn’t realise what the woman means, distracted by her smile. Then Merrill sees Isabela is holding a dress in her hands, and gasps in surprise.

It’s a simple dress, bottle green, and for a moment Merrill wonders why Isabela has a dress like this in the first place. She’s never seen the pirate wearing a proper dress, though she’d surely look amazing.

“Now you can change your clothes. Try it.”

 “I’ll give it back to you once I –“

“Keep it,” Isabela says in that soft voice that’s a little bit commanding, that makes other people do what she wants.

Merrill glances at the dress in her hands. It’s not a gift, it doesn’t mean anything. Isabela is simply being kind.

The pirate waits outside while Merrill puts on the dress. For a brief moment the elf considers telling her to stay, but that… that would be improper (that could only happen in one of Varric’s novels).

The dress feels… nice. There’s no mirror in the room but Isabela’s reaction is enough.

“You look so _pretty_! It’s simply perfect for you,” she says with a wide smile.

Usually people don’t notice her, she’s just another elf. Varric tells her she has a pretty smile, but he’s only saying that because they’re friends. Merrill doesn’t know what to do with compliments. They are reserved for people who actually deserve them, not for her.

But when it’s Isabela who says such things, Merrill can almost believe her.

“Thank you,” she mumbles, staring at the floor. “I should go back to the Alienage to, uh… clean my clothes, and…”

“I’ll go with you. It’s late, we both know Kirkwall isn’t exactly the safest city in the world. Besides, this place is getting boring. I’ve had enough of drunk people yelling.”

Merrill is in no position to argue, so she just nods.

She’s quite sure the Hanged Man has been magically teleported closer to the Alienage because it somehow takes them five seconds to get there. Or maybe she’s just so preoccupied with her thoughts, it all happens too quickly.

She’d like to enjoy the moment, appreciate the fact that she’s alone with Isabela. She should also say something clever, or at least not embarrassing. Now, however, the moment is gone, and  they’re standing in front of the door to Merrill’s apartment.

She can’t help but feel a pang of disappointment. And anger that she can’t think of anything to say. She already thanked her. Should she thank again? Or apologise? The pirate surely doesn’t want to hear _that_ again.

“I –” she begins. It’s like she doesn’t remember how to formulate words.

“Goodnight,” Isabela says, and before Merrill can say something the woman kisses her on her cheek.

It doesn’t mean anything, she’s sure. But perhaps it does, and the very idea that perhaps Isabela did it to tell her something makes everything even more confusing.

Feeling a bit dizzy (for no particular reason, of course?), Merrill can only smile and mumble something that she hopes sounds like “Goodnight”. Her eyes refuse to look anywhere else but at Isabela walking away. The Alienage is dreadfully empty when the woman disappears.

The next day the Hanged Man is packed with regular customers. Merrill greets Hawke who replies with something like a painful moan. The Champion, devastated by the  worst hangover in the history of the known world, looks like someone who just fought the Archdemon and barely survived.

“Nice dress,” Hawke manages to say. “That’s a good look on you.”

Merrill can’t help but smile.


End file.
